


gun safety training

by writerangel



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Gen, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, case description, trauma depiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27155014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerangel/pseuds/writerangel
Summary: after being shot in front of your house, you are left to deal with the aftermath.
Relationships: Spencer Reid & Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	gun safety training

**Author's Note:**

> this was written as a purely indulgent fic. i was just getting really tired of how cm writes really traumatizing experiences for their characters and dealing with their consequences poorly. so big warning but um this is a more believable depiction of ptsd trauma than cm will ever give u

A number of things weren’t supposed to happen. 

For starters, you weren’t supposed to sleep through your alarm. It baffled you how you even managed to let that happen; the one time you set your alarm fifteen minutes early, your brain decides to ignore it. Thus, leaving you in a frantic panic of getting dressed and grabbing your essentials before locking your house up in a rush. You weren’t a morning person, but you preferred not having to rush the start of your day. You didn't even get to make breakfast, or coffee, and did you set your house alarms back on? There was no time to double check; you had to settle with convincing yourself that yes, you did. 

You weren’t supposed to have to rely on the crappy work coffee. It normally wasn’t too bad but Anderson had just made the batch, meaning there was too much water compared to the scoops of coffee. Plus, none of the hazelnut creamer you loved. At least Garcia was someone with a working alarm and a kind enough heart to bring in donuts on your seemingly unlucky day. Too bad this didn’t do much to alter your crappy mood. 

You _were_ supposed to be working on paperwork today. _However_ , you weren’t supposed to have this much. The pile was higher than you remembered, almost as if Morgan and Prentiss snuck a few of their own onto yours, to be funny, to be pricks. As you noticed them snickering like a couple of prepubescent teenagers in the corner of your eye, you knew it was both. 

And finally, you weren’t supposed to come home to any uninvited guests. You dragged your heavy feet up to your front door, rubbing some tired out of your eyes, before gathering your keys to open up. All you could think about was taking a long, hot shower to wash off the straining office lights and bad luck of the day. When you finally got your door open, the person before you looked just as surprised as you did. Everything happened all too fast. Or maybe it happened at just the appropriate speed. Maybe they realized things at the same time you did. When you looked at their attire and the goods in their hands, _your_ goods, something clicked in both your heads when your eyes met again. It was only too bad they acted faster than you were able to. 

A lot of things weren’t supposed to happen that day. But most of all, you weren’t supposed to get robbed, shot in the thigh, then promptly shoved down your porch steps, before you could even act, all the while they managed to get away. 

#

Your mom had always told you you were pain intolerant. When you were a kid, you would poke at bruises you didn’t remember getting, scabs just healing over, until she would slap your hand away. She would joke you were some kind of X-Men; it would be impossible to kill you because of the lack of pain you felt. You always remembered her words when you would have to kick a door open, or bullets would bruise you through the kevlar vest. The force exerted would leave joints walking different, bruising left to be poked at. You were fueled by the adrenaline, the curiosity. You remembered your momma's words now, as you had felt what could possibly be the worst affliction in your life. Something was broken. Everything hurt too much to truly pinpoint the exact location, but it was clear something was broken. 

Somehow, your brain remembered that you were alone and it was only up to you to call someone. How had no one heard what just happened? You lived in a generally safe neighborhood, and the gunshot sounded pretty loud to you. You crawled to drag yourself up some of the steps where your phone had dropped out. It took everything in you not to yell out in agony with every movement. 

After hitting a few buttons, you shakily raised the phone to your ear, wincing out at the strained movement. “Hello?” They answered on the second ring. 

You let out a quiet breath of relief. “Heyyy, Rossi. Sorry to bother you. Are you busy right now?” 

“No, just making dinner. Why? Has a case come in?” 

“No, no. Nothing of that matter. Don't worry.” You took a sharp inhale. Remembering increasing the pain level. Was that possible? You saved that thought to ask Reid later. “I was just wondering, if you’re not too busy, could you pick me up?” 

“Depends on what the situation is.” He sounded worried about what you were alluding to, like you got arrested and you chose him as your one phone call. 

“Well, I'm at my house, and I’ve just been shot.” 

“Oh my god, why didn’t you lead with that?” 

“Sorry,” you winced. “Do you still know my address?” 

“Yes, of course. I'm leaving now. Stay right there.” 

“It’s not like I have much of a choice,” you mumbled to yourself, after he hung up. An abundance of thoughts were speeding through your brain, and none of them were the right ones. Did they have to push you down the stairs? What kind of memories would run through your brain as your last? Are _those_ your core memories? You always wondered what yours were. Not that you were going to die. If Penelope could survive a shot to the chest you could survive one to the leg. Did he take the last of your brownies? 

The edge of the steps were digging into your back. You sat up to reposition yourself until you remembered. You just got shot and pushed down the stairs. Tears were involuntarily prickling at your eyes. Thank god they weren’t a full flight of stairs like in your childhood house but nonetheless, stairs. You couldn’t believe this was happening to you. You really should’ve checked if you set the house alarm. 

Usually you weren’t someone to typically rush your boss, but what was taking Rossi so long? You tried to think of a Reid fact, something related to time seeming longer in stressed induced situations but honestly, you were getting tired. That was when you looked down at your leg for the first time. You groaned deeply at the sight before you. It was gross: blood seeping out of the wound like it was their job. You should probably do something to stop the bleeding. Slowly, and painfully, you took off your blazer and tried to wrap a tourniquet on your leg. The burning sensation in your leg was draining the rest of your energy. It was too hard to even stay aware or think straight, let alone do a good job of taking care of yourself. You wanted to scream out an endless amount of obscenities; too many things hurt. Momma had it all wrong. Maybe X-Men powers fade when you grow older, or just when they begin to matter. Momma, can you run me a bath tonight? Brush my hair, kiss the ache away, and tell me I'll be alright? 

The exertion you just expressed left you panting. You let out a deep exhale and felt your eyes close right when you heard a car skid to a stop. _Rossi_. Your savior. A rich italian asshole was your savior. You didn’t open your eyes when you heard him run up to you. 

“Holy shit, that's a lot of blood. Hey hey!” He was tapping on your face. “Stop being a big baby and wake up.” 

You forced your eyes half open. “Not a very nice way to greet a dying coworker, now is it?” 

He flashed you a humored smile. “Please. If you can be sarcastic, you’re not dying.” He stood over you and carefully slid his arms under yours to wrap around you and help you to your feet. “Come on. Up, up.” 

When you felt the pull on your body, you involuntarily let out a screaming sob. It was guttural, such deep torment. He stopped in his tracks, eyes widened. Rossi had never heard such a sound come from you; it frightened him to his core. “Sorry,” you apologized.

Too fearful to say anything, he just nodded before moving your body so your arm was wrapped around his shoulder, and his around your waist. You hopped to the car, but truly you wanted to die with each step. 

Once buckled and settled in, a shiver ran through your spine. The soft warm seats were such a contrast over your cold, uncomfortable brick stairs. You had never been in Rossi's car before. God, you were such an asshole. Your first time in your superior’s car, and you were going to bleed all over his Cadillac seats. 

“Okay, buckled? Time for the hospital.'' As he pulled out of park, soft jazz music began to play. It was that uncomfortable elevator music you only hear in movies, and it made what just transpired between the two of you more awkward. You would reach over to change it if you knew how. And of course there was the excruciating sensation that someone was standing on your ribs. 

“Why did you call me?” 

“What do you mean?” You were bleeding on your front porch, or did he just miss all that?

“Why didn’t you just call 911? They would’ve been faster and better equipped.”

You dead starred him. “Rossi. I have yet to finish paying off my student loans and ambulance fees are crazy expensive.” 

He shrugged like it was no big deal. “The job would’ve covered it.”

Leaning your head back, sinking into the seat, you closed your eyes. “I'd rather cover as much of whatever all this is going to cost than unnecessary expenses.” 

“So why me? Why not Hotch or Morgan?” 

You would have shrugged at this moment. “Dunno. Just figured Grandpa Rossi didn't have any fun plans for today.” 

“Don’t call me grandpa.” A tinge of annoyance seeped into his tone. 

You smirked. “So I'm right? You had no fun plans?”

“You do know that I'm the one driving you to the hospital right now? You have to be nice to me.”

You opened your eyes and rolled your head to face him. “And you know that I'm currently bleeding in your car? You tell me who holds the real power right now.”

Rossi groaned in response and hit the gas. 

#

You hated hospitals. Surgeries always freaked you out and you hated hospitals. In your opinion, anyone that liked being in a hospital was not to be trusted. Almost nothing good could be associated with a hospital - they always had a stuffy yet cold air about them, and despite it being their job to be clean, they always felt icky. Therefore, it made sense why you were less than overjoyed when you woke up in the hospital. Somehow you felt tight and exposed all at once. You had the terrible hospital gown and cast to thank for that wonderful ambience.

The first thing you saw was a doctor beside your bed writing notes when you woke up. “Oh good you’re up. You lost a considerate amount of blood, bruised your ribs, and broke your arm. But the bullet did not pass through your leg, and the tourniquet was a smart move.” 

“Am I going to be okay?” Your voice came out raspier than you expected. You tried clearing your throat but that didn’t do much. 

“Well, you’re going to have a cast for your arm for a few months and I am prescribing mandatory bed rest.” 

“But I’m not going to die?”

The doctor let out a chuckle. “No, you're not going to die. You’ll be okay.” 

Your head fell back against the pillows as you let out a sigh of relief. This surprised you. Not because you wanted to die, but because you hadn't expected to find yourself petrified it was a possibility. 

“You have a lot of people in the waiting room. Should I let them in?” 

You furrowed your eyebrows, shocked, but nodded. You only remembered telling Rossi. There was no reason for there to be anyone else. 

The doctor lingered by the door. “Quite a big family you have there. They’ll be glad to know you're okay.” 

You never really considered to think of the BAU as a family. To you they were work friends, which was different. With never being that close to your parents, and your sister living halfway across the country, you were pretty much alone in DC. You’ve never really had a good idea of what a family should be. 

But then they all came in, different expressions of love. A grandpa with a knowing smile, a dad with his somber version of joy, eccentric sister with tears streaming down her face, the two lesbian moms holding flowers, and your two handsome guys standing awkward in the back. It made you think of all the other times you showed up for one another, the ways you needed to and the times you didn't have to. 

“Hey,” you croaked out. “Could someone get me some water?” 

Emily, the closest to the table with the pitcher, nodded and poured you a cup.

“Thank you. You guys didn’t have to come. It's just a minor injury, I'll be fine.” 

“Nonsense,” Hotch waved you off. “We wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

Penelope couldn’t hold herself back anymore. She rushed to your side. “I was so scared you could have died!”

Even though the doctor confirmed that no, you weren't going to die, her statement made your eyes flash wide. _You could have died._ The panic must have displayed evidently on your face because JJ scolded her. “Pen!” 

“I’m sorry! I'm just glad you're okay.” She began brushing your hair back, tenderly. Such a delicate action made you think of when you were 15 and your sister would comfort you after your first breakup. “You are okay, right?” 

Making sure to wash away the fear from your face, you smiled and nodded. “Yeah, of course.” Her hands were soft, and you wanted them to caress your hair forever, but you knew that was selfish. “You guys don't have to stay. It's probably late.” 

Hotch nodded. “We can talk in the morning, but make sure to get some rest.” 

Rossi added, “you really scared me there, kid.” 

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m also sorry about your car.” 

He shook his head. “Don't worry about that. Materials are replaceable. You are not.” 

The rest of them walked out of the room to give you some rest, while Spencer's eyes scanned your face. You hated being under such scrutiny; he was profiling you. 

Derek looked back. “You coming, kid?” 

“Yeah...” He said it like a question, unsure of his own words. He followed Derek out the door until they stopped outside in a huddle with the remainder of the team. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, so you decided you should probably try to sleep. Once you figured out how to recline your bed back to satisfaction, Spencer, Derek, and Penelope walked back in. 

“What is it?”

“We’re going to stay with you tonight,” Derek said. 

“Noo, you don't have to do that. Please go home to your comfy beds. I’ll just see you all in the morning.” 

Penelope wasn't having any of that. “No ifs, ands, or buts. We are staying with you and that's final.” She began pulling up a chair beside you. 

You looked at the other defiant faces before you. You tried to decipher what else they were saying, but all you could see was “don't fight us on this.” You nodded to let them know they could pull up a chair. In all honesty, you were glad to have them so persistent. Normally, you would never ask this of them but, you didn’t think you could fall asleep being alone. Penelope took your hand and rubbed her thumb back and forth, soothing you to sleep. Suddenly, you were in your childhood home, where nothing felt new, and your mom was tapping rhythmically on your back to get you to fall asleep. Perhaps the doctor was right; quite a big family you had. 

Surprisingly, you were able to sleep, even knowing that there were three other bodies in the room with you. You were never one to find comfort in another person. Growing up, you and your sister had your own rooms and even when you had roommates in your college apartments, you didn't share rooms with them. Freshman year was your year of the worst sleep schedule. 

According to Reid, there was a 2012 study that claimed one usually sleeps better with another person in the room, like when partners share beds. Of course, Spencer mentioned this fact many many years ago, so your memory was probably hazy. He stopped bringing up sleep statistics when you started bringing up his abhorrent sleeping habits. 

The rest of the team members took shifts staying with you. You assured them this wasn't necessary, that you were a grown up and could sleep fine on your own, but they reminded you three days was no big deal. It wasn't until Derek dropped you off at your house when you realized how lucky you were to have them stay with you. 

The blood was still there on your front porch. Someone had tried to wash it away, but clearly their efforts were already too late. Seeing the scene of the crime again made it hard for you to breathe. 

Derek was going to put up another fight, insisting on staying with you at least one more night, but you practically pushed him out the door. As much as you loved him, your anxiety guilt was more powerful. Not to mention that you hadn’t been alone since you got shot five days ago. 

Despite having gotten the best sleep in your career for four nights straight, you felt thoroughly drained. You’ve never spent such consistent time with people around. Dropping your hospital bag on the floor with a soft thud, a weight lifted off your uninjured shoulder. Emily and JJ had brought you a change of clothes since they didn’t want you to go home in bloodied ones. With a deep sigh, you massaged your face. You were craving a hot shower in the house you paid for, with things only touched and cleaned by you. 

After you had finished scrubbing the hospital air from your hair and skin, your body felt the kind of relaxed one gets from a hot shower. But stepping out of the bathroom wrapped in your towel put you on edge again. With nothing else to distract your mind, you realized you were well exposed. You’ve never felt your house so eerie; it haunted you. Quickly you got dressed and your first instinct was to grab your gun. It was sad, you knew that, but there was nothing else you could think of to protect yourself against the unknown. Suddenly, your house that you handpicked, loved into perfection, tailored to feel homely just for you, was no longer a safe haven. It was too big, with too many potential fears lurking in every corner. All you could think of were past victims you worked for and the various images unsubs leave when they invade a home. Sure you were lucky, but that didn’t make the fear go away. 

Man you couldn’t wait to get back to work. 

#

That night, you barely slept. You probably got a max of two, three hours spread over intervals. 

“Maybe I should just move,” you joked on the phone with your sister. This morning, you made sure to wake up in time to make coffee. Hopefully, if you put in extra care to do everything right, nothing bad would happen. 

“You need therapy.” 

“I know, I know. I have an appointment this weekend.” 

“Have you told anyone about this?” 

Using your shoulder to hold your phone to your ear, you put the additives in your coffee. “About what? It just happened.” 

“Okay,” she didnt sound convinced by you but let it go. There wasn’t much else she could do or say. “If it became a pattern you would tell someone, right?” 

Whenever she turned on her motherly tone, you visibly squirmed. Silently scrunching your nose, you said, “yeah of course, whatever. I should go.” It was better to hang up now than have her catch you in a potential lie. 

“Okay, be safe. I love you.”

“I love you too.” 

You appreciated her concern but there was no reason to worry. After what you went through, this behavior was normal. It was just one night of hyper vigilance, right?

Wrong. The cycle never seemed to end. At some point you started using your breaks at work for nap times you would take in the conference room (you had a loud timer on your phone, of course) and somehow you were staying later and later at work to be able to sleep there. A joke crossed your mind about staying over at the BAU, which turned into sincere consideration. But you quickly shook your head out of absurdity. 

If anyone on your team took notice, they didn't mention it. This you were grateful for. There was nothing else about your behavior that could be deemed worrisome, anyways. You stayed up to date with your therapy sessions and you never fell behind on your work duties. 

Then your first case since your incident (your therapist did not approve of the nickname you gave the event) came in. You were on time for the briefing because JJ walked in right as your wakeup alarm rang. 

“Everything okay?” JJ asked, setting down her pile of files on the roundtable. 

You rubbed your fists to wake up your eyes. “Yeah. What is it?” 

“Idaho.” JJ was setting up the projector while the two of your waited for the rest of the team. You grabbed a file from the stack you understood was for you and began reading. 

“Well, lookie here. On time and everything!” Derek joked, hitting your shoulder. You nudged him with your cast as he sat down next to you. As the rest of the team filtered in, you could feel Spencer's eyes on you, watching. You felt uneasy knowing he was profiling you again, but he didn't say anything and you didn’t spare him a glance. 

“What do we got?” Derek began the discussion. 

“Stanley, Idaho. This is the second family that’s been killed.” 

“What makes the police think they’re connected?” Spencer asked. 

“Well,” JJ began pulling up the photos. “Both families were found in their beds, their throats slashed. A neighbor came over when they heard the children crying non stop.” 

Emily looked up, “they left the children?” 

“Sort of. Every member of the family over the age of 16 was killed.” 

Penelope gasped. 

“That is weird,” Rossi said. 

“It's just that one house?” You asked. 

“One _family_ ,” JJ emphasized. “Their cousins live in town, a couple neighborhoods over, and same deal.”

Hotch wore his usual worried frown. You wondered if his eyebrows were permanently stitched like that. “Wheels up in twenty.” 

Everyone exited while Spencer and Emily walked with you. “What are you thinking?” Spencer asked you. 

“Do you think Hotch was an angry baby?”

#

The case was unbelievably hard. The team was working tirelessly, and nevertheless, the unsub managed to kill another family while you were in town. Days melded together and you couldn't remember the last time you got real sleep, but that wasn’t something new to you. However, Shirley Jackson was right: “No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream.” Everyone has their breaking point and it was only so long you could work without even the slightest break. 

Hotch was fit to be a leader because while he carried the too much gene (in your line of work, pretty much everyone did), he also had the ability to know when to stop. “I think that’s enough for today. Everyone go back to the hotel and we can regroup in the morning. Get some rest.” 

The rest of the team complied but this was the part you were most dreading. Sure you were far from home, 2,424 miles to be exact, and there were many more obstacles to get to you in a hotel, but there remained this lingering feeling. Deep down you knew, you would be unable to get proper sleep. 

When the team made it back to the hotel, you caught up with Spencer. “Are you tired?” 

“Um, not very. Why, did you want to brainstorm for the case?”

You shrugged. “Or we could play cards or watch a movie.” 

He gave you a gentle smile. He knew more than he was letting on, but you didn’t push him. Nodding, he said, “okay,” and followed up to your room. 

Telling the rest of the team goodnight, you let yourself into your room and dropped your bag and kicked your shoes off by the door. Spencer gently set his on a chair by the table while you grabbed the cards. 

“Spit?” You asked, to confirm the game to play. Spencer nodded and you began dealing. 

You were beating Spencer. It was making him angry and that brightened your mood. You had gotten better than the last time the pair of you played and his reaction was simply feeding into your ego. 

“Annnnnd, I win.” It took all your self control but you managed to slowly and calmly place your last card down onto the deck. 

“Whatever,” he threw down the remainder of his cards towards you. “You probably cheated anyways.” 

You gasped out a laugh. “You’re such a sore loser!” 

His jaw dropped. “Am not! I never lose.”

You gave him a smug look. Feigning pity and ignorance, you said, “do you want a rematch?”

He narrowed his eyes at how much you were enjoying this. “Hmm, no.” He shook his head. “Do you have your markers?” 

Giving him a look, you hated the way he always phrased it like he was talking to a 5 year old and their crayons. “Yeah, but you don’t have to say it like that.” So you liked to mark your notes in different colored sharpie’s. They helped the seemingly impossible cases make sense to your brain and recently came in handy when people wanted to sign your cast. You walked over to your bag to grab the sharpies. 

“I want to sign your cast.”

Frowning, you handed the ‘markers’ over. “But you already did. Remember, Morgan made fun of the way you just signed your name without writing a little note.”

“What else was I supposed to write?” He uncapped the red one and grabbed your left arm to mark up.

“You know. Like get well soon or something.” 

“But that doesn’t help with the healing process. It's useless and superficial.” 

“Okayy, but it's like getting your yearbook signed. You want to have proof to yourself and others that you have friends.”

“Thats dumb.” You look up at him, offended almost. He points to himself. “I’m your proof.” 

You’re taken aback by the bluntness of his statement, but hit him with your casted arm. “Shut up. Why are you making a big deal about it; you’re the one who wanted to sign.”

He picks up a blue sharpie. “Yeah, because your cast looks lonely.” He commenced drawing doodles on the big empty spaces. 

You craned your neck to see what he was drawing. “Why a rocket?” 

He shrugged as he continued the theme. “I have recently been reading a lot of Hélène Courtois. Did you know that neutron stars can spin at a rate of 600 rotations per second?” 

“I do.” 

Spencer looked up from his doodle of Saturn. “You do?” His eyes were wide with such hope and excitement, you almost felt bad about the lying. 

You couldn’t help but laugh. “No, Reid. Only you know the facts that you share. That's why we love having you around. However, I do know blackholes fly out spitballs, and competitive art used to be an Olympic event.” 

“You remember my facts?” A small smile was growing on his face. 

Nodding, “of course I do. You’re sharing them for a reason, right?” 

“Yeah,” his tone ended soft, almost like he was smitten with knowing about your noticing. He then made an unsure face, scrunching his nose slight and looking like he was biting the inside of his cheek. “Well, I should probably go.” 

Clearing your throat, you moved your cast out of his reach abruptly. “Yeah, of course. Thanks for… hanging. And the doodles.” 

Grabbing his bag, he nodded with a tight lipped smile and stood up. He was right to the door when he stopped and turned. “Is everything okay?” 

With the three simplest words, Spencer bulldozed the dam you had been building for weeks. You could feel the tears let go as they streamed down your face. The exhaustion had finally caught up with you in a way that felt pointless to wipe away the tears. This was like your body’s way of telling you, “we are going to be here for a while.” The only thing you could be moved to do was say, **“** if I asked you to stay, would you? **”**

Spencer furrowed his eyebrows in concern and gnawed at his lower lip. Then he did something that completely surprised you - he walked up to you and wrapped his arms around you into a tight hug. It wasn’t until he gently squeezed that you broke down, collapsing in his arms. The rest of what you were holding on to was now let go. It became less of a hug and more of Spencer carrying you.

He rubbed reassuring circles into your back. “You’re okay.” 

You let go, wiping your face clear of the many, many tears. “Sorry about that. Sorry for soaking your vest.” 

“Don't apologize. Rossi was right; material things can be replaced.” 

Sniffling out a laugh, you nodded. “What’s wrong?” Spencer asked. 

You rubbed your hands all over your face to wake it up. There was a soreness in your eyes as you forced your cheeks up, but you managed. “Ahh, I’m just really tired. Thanks, Spence. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He frowned, as if the mere mention of seeing him tomorrow was the craziest thing you could have said. “No.” 

“What do you mean, no?” 

Spencer looked at you like your question was stupid and the answer was glaringly obvious. “I mean, no. You asked me to stay so I will.” 

“Oh, that was just- I mean, that’s not-” 

“I’m just going to pop back to my room, freshen up for bed, and I’ll be back okay? You should do the same.”

This was a side of Spencer you had never seen before. Being on the team for almost four years now, you had gotten accustomed to facts spilling Spencer, sarcastic Spencer, and even robot Reid. But this, this was different. Granted, you’ve never been in a situation such as your current one where you _needed_ this type of Reid to be unlocked. Still. You were so stunned by the altercation that you didn’t even realize you basically accepted his terms until you heard the click of the door shutting. Well, you heard the man. Time to get ready for bed. 

At home, you would need to play some obscure history podcast as a form of a background noise while you performed your mundane activities. It wasn’t much but it helped to block out the scary ordinary noises of your house and hearing someone else’s voice made you feel less alone. But in this hotel room, for the first time in weeks, you were able to brush your teeth, wash your face, and change clothes in silence. To feel such a level of security, the kind you had not experienced in a long time, made it easier to breathe. The lone sound of your faucet running accompanied by a pure absence of thoughts was meditative in a way. 

You were putting your sharpies away when you heard a knock on the door that connected the two hotel rooms. Opening up, you saw Spencer, clad in a white “I HEART VEGAS” shirt and dinosaur patterned pyjama pants. You looked back up again and let out a snort. 

“Listen, my aunt gave me them. It was a really long time ago!” He followed you into the room as you made your way towards the bed. 

“Nice jammies.” 

“Thanks. Did you know that footed pyjamas were originally created for adults?” 

You were now untucking the covers and letting yourself into bed. “Really?” 

Spencer sat on top of the covers. “Yes. They were created by people sewing socks to the bottom of their pants. Their original function was to prevent bugs from biting their toes.” 

You scrunched your face closed and kicked your feet in disgust. “Ew! Spence! Stop that.” He giggled at your reaction. “You know you can get under the covers, right?” 

“Oh. Are you sure?” 

“Yeah. Just turn the light off first.” You bared your teeth at him in an awkward but pleading smile. 

“Okay.” He shut the light and took his glasses off before joining you back in the bed. “What happened earlier?” 

You sighed. There was no point hiding back now. “I’ve just been really exhausted lately.” 

“I noticed. Some people seem to think you've moved into the BAU.” 

Good thing you decided against that early on. “Ha, I wish!” 

Spencer got quiet at your joke and his silence made you uncomfortable. You were aware that he had been profiling you a lot lately and now there was no room but to confront the issue at hand. Even though you knew it was bound to and about to happen, your throat was all dried up, making you nervous beyond compare. “Sooooo… what’s up?” 

With a deep inhale and exhale, you began your confession. “I've been having trouble sleeping. I've never been like this before, but all of a sudden my house feels too big and the slightest noise makes me terrified.” 

“It makes sense; you did go through a traumatic event.” 

“I just want things to go back to normal.” 

Spencer inhales through his teeth. “That might be impossible at this point.”

“What?” Fear jolts through your legs and the only part of you not terrifiably paralyzed is your neck as it turns to look at Spencer. Even though critical time had passed since your incident, you were still holding out hope that with eventual time and continued therapy sessions this behavior would calm down to your regular self. 

He shrugged. “You can never _really_ go back. Everyday events happen that you can’t change the person you are after they happen to you. After tonight, after this case, and after we fly back home, you’re going to be a different person than you were when you woke up this morning. The only difference is your brain is registering your shooting as negative, so it feels unsafe in your environment. It's justifiably negative but it manifested in such a form that your brain can only view yourself as two parts: pre-shot Y/N and post-shot Y/N.” 

You looked back at your fiddling hands over the covers. “What am I supposed to do then? Sleep at the BAU forever?” 

“What is it about having other people around that calms you?” 

Your hands flew to your face in defense. “This is going to sound so dumb, I know.” 

“It’s not dumb.” 

“I’ve always been comfortable in my independence. Growing up, I didn't need to have the comfort of another person at the end of the day. But with this, it was my major strength used against me. And after I,” you faltered, unable to properly place the name to what happened. “The incident. I was truly, sincerely alone, and not in the way I found enjoyable. Weirdly, no one had heard all the commotion, so for a while I was just by myself. Laying there, bleeding out, cold and very uncomfortable.” 

“That’s scary.” It was clear to you through his understanding tone that he felt bad for you, but you didn’t want his pity. 

You shook your head, frustration rising. “I work out almost every day. I raised through my ranks by myself, got top marks in school, and am a renowned FBI agent. I am strong, and smart, but when it came down to it, I couldn’t defend myself against petty theft.” 

“You can be all that and traumatized. How many times have we talked to survivors, understanding that one of the worst things an unsub can put them through is making them feel unsafe in their own home?” 

A weight was lifted off of you as you let his sentence settle in you. Spencer was completely right. Not to call your past therapy sessions a waste (shoutout to Richard) but sometimes it helps when someone knows you. 

“So now what? I just make you pillow talk to me every night now?” You were obviously joking. That would be a massive breach of his personal life, for starters. 

“Did you know that there are professional cuddlers? And pillow talk experts?” 

You turned your head to look at him. “Are you saying I have to pay you for this?”

He chuckled. “Maybe consider hiring _them_.”

“Spence, I’m not going to pay to have a stranger in my house. That’s how this started.” 

“Right.” He thought for a minute. “You could get a roommate. Or a dog.”

Now that was an idea. Your family had a dog when you were growing up, but you never considered the option as of late. There would be so much you would have to get and do. Would having a dog even be possible with your job? Emily did have Sergio, but-

“You know the whole point of pillow talk, is to talk, not keep your thoughts to yourself. It’s in the name.” 

“Sorry. I was just thinking about what you said. A dog seems like a step in the right direction.”

“Yeah?” You could hear the smile in his voice as you nodded. “Good to know I haven't run out of my potential yet.”

You laughed and yawned. This talking was helping. “Spence?” 

“Hmm?” He hummed.

“Can you do me a favor?” 

“Yeah, whats up?” 

“Can you read to me?” 

“I can recite poetry to you.” 

Your eyes widened. Poetry felt intimate, but there was no point worrying about that anymore. You were sharing a bed after all. “Okay.” 

He cleared his throat. “Life is short, though I keep this from my children. Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways, a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways I’ll keep from my children.”

His voice speaks softly, as if he is thinking carefully about what each word really means in kindness. The lulls calm you and the constant up and downtills in his voice causes the droop in your eyes. Before you know it, you finally fall asleep. 


End file.
